It stirs earlier now.
I notice it without meaning to. In the smallest moments. The warmth doesn't wait for the mirror. It doesn't wait for motion. It hums beneath the surface while I'm sitting still – reading, brushing my hair, carrying a cup of tea from one room to another.
It's quieter when it comes this way. But it's present. Steady. A thread I can feel no matter how carefully I try to let it pass.
I shift sometimes without thinking. Cross and uncross my legs. My breath comes shallow for no reason. A flutter, light and soft, but real.
I don't act on it immediately. But I know. I can feel it now: this isn't going away.
It's mine. It lives inside me now. Quiet. Low. Waiting.
And the thought of that – the weight of it – makes the warmth climb higher.
It doesn't take much.
The house is still. The hour soft. My breath drifts light across my lips as I settle back against the quiet.
The warmth is there – waiting. Steady. I don't make a decision. I don't weigh it. My fingertips brush lower without thought. Over the softness of fabric. The familiar press.
It rises fast this time.
I let it.
There's no ritual. No careful pacing. No mirror. Just breath, and heat, and the way my hand moves without hesitation.
The release is quick – quicker than I mean for it to be. My breath breaks. My body curls lightly in on itself. The sound that leaves me is low, unsteady, not graceful.
I exhale softly as the warmth spills over, as it fades – but this time, something tugs underneath.
I liked how easy that was.
Too easy.
I sit still for a moment after, the quiet pressing close. My fingertips rest idly, no urgency now. But the thought drifts at the edges of me: how quickly it stirred. How easily I gave in.
I draw a slow breath and close my eyes.
The quiet stretches longer afterward.
I sit with it. The soft drift of breath. The looseness in my limbs. But beneath the stillness, the warmth doesn't quite settle the way it used to.
I feel restless.
Not sharply. Not urgently. But enough. Enough to make me shift. Enough to make my fingertips graze idly over the curve of my thigh long after the heat has faded.
I know I'll do it again.
The thought isn't heavy. It isn't cruel. It settles soft at the back of my mind, patient and sure. There's no resistance left in me now – not truly. The idea of waiting, of holding back, feels distant. Unnecessary.
I fall asleep with the warmth still alive beneath my skin. Low. Steady.
And wanting.